


waking up to ash and dust

by arochilton



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Just some short drabble, Post-Yakimono but Pre-3.4, When will Chilton's reflection show who he is inside? oh wait it does in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arochilton/pseuds/arochilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Frederick Chilton's survival is not something he takes lightly. Examining himself in the mirror, he takes a minute to reconsider all the events that have kept him alive, as well as to project predictions of future events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	waking up to ash and dust

**Author's Note:**

> There isn't much of a plot here, and I do recognize that I see Chilton differently than most people, but this is my interpretation of how he sees himself at the start of season three: invincible, indestructible, privileged (just how he's always seen himself).
> 
> Here is an accompanying 8tracks mix: https://8tracks.com/arochilton/i-ve-got-blood-on-my-name

Long, deft fingers trace soft flesh, brushing over dark eyebrows thinning with age. These fingers continue their facial journey, outlining the contours of a sharp nose and then exploring the hardness of strong cheekbones. The movements slow, however, upon grazing the expanse of skin on the left cheek. Where there should be softness, there is a feeling foreign upon human skin. It is hardened, raised, still alien to these well-rehearsed fingers. No amount of time can ever erase its presence, but that is not necessary. The man revels in the existence of it, even finds its continued residence on his cheek comforting. To some, such a mark would be considered a blemish, something to cover up or be embarrassed by. For Frederick Chilton, however, the scar is a trophy, a triumph, and a success. It is proof of what he has overcome and evidence that he has made it out alive. 

Of course, there have been minor drawbacks since he was released from the hospital. For instance, when the man makes a rare appearance in public, toddlers often look at the dark wound etched into his face and run away shrieking as if they believe the psychiatrist has stepped directly out of a horror movie their parents bar them from viewing. However, the occasional inquisitive child or talkative elderly woman sometimes confronts Frederick, asking him what has happened. "I was shot," comes the reply. There is never a need to fabricate a false claim. Frederick may often exaggerate about his degrees and credentials, but the scar is something he earned. He is proud to wear it on his face. How many people can say that they have faced death—twice, even—and come out on top with nothing but an abrasion to tell the tale?

To be truthful, Frederick doesn’t remember much of the incident itself besides fleeting images. When he woke up in the hospital, the doctors (he could hardly bear to call those worthless excuses for medical folk “ _doctors_ ”) had warned him that slight amnesia could be a side effect due to how the bullet had grazed his brain. Nonetheless, he remembers seeing the dismembered body of one of his mortal enemies and how he did not even have time to revel in the fact that he was dead because Frederick found himself running straight into the clutches of his other adversary. He cannot forget waking up to something akin to the aftermath of a battle scene from a Tarantino film played out in his kitchen. He recalls warm water from Will Graham’s shower glazing across his skin as he watched the blood of dead men slide off his body and weep into the drain, disappearing from sight but not from memory. He thinks he can remember the ice cold chill of snow against his bare palms, but that might just be a hallucination. He can hear his own voice, tired yet forceful, speaking harshly to Alana Bloom as she continued to threaten Frederick rather than comprehending the danger she herself was in. He remembers the shattering of glass, a searing pain in his head, and then it all goes dark. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in a hospital bed three and a half weeks later, a white bandage plastered to his cheek and fluorescent hospital bands circled around his wrists instead of tightly clasped handcuffs.

Now, peering at himself in the mirror, the man swears he looks better for it. His reflection stares back at him, proud and composed as ever. The man has fine narrow features, and the scar gives a more defined grizzled look to his face. His mouth twitches as he admires his appearance, tilting his head to the side to show off his jawline. The beard he had been in the habit of shaving off is growing in again, accenting the scar quite effectively. It had grown back while he was in the hospital, and Frederick found himself enjoying its reappearance. He regards the way it dusts his chin, giving him a rush of dominance. It is yet another layer between him and his opposition. Frederick lets a thin smirk spread across his face, barely twitching as the inside of his cheek aches in protest at the stretch of muscles. The pull of pain he feels is nothing. He is already growing used to it, and he is quite pleased with his appearance.

Sometimes, though, when he wakes up in the morning, before he trails his fingers along the sides of his face, there is no uncomfortable twinge of numbness in his cheek and for a split second, he forgets about the incident altogether. But in the end, he can never forget that it happened. It is a part of him now, as much as his pale green eyes are, as much as the dark plans that dance around his mind are, as much as the inconsistent limp in his step that is more defined when he needs it to be is. As long as he is called Dr. Frederick Chilton, his name is stained with the mistake that was his framing and the gun that somehow spared his life. He does not want sympathy. He still yearns for what he has always desired: respect by those around him, envy from others, and power.

That fated bullet may have cost Frederick lots of blood and several layers of skin, but it did not and does not affect who he is. Rather than making him weaker, as it would perhaps do to others, it gives him a constant reminder that he is above petty traits such as weakness and submission. He is stronger now than ever, pride seeming to seep from the pores of his skin, determination driving his mind in the direction of revenge. Hannibal Lecter must be caught. Frederick smiles wider, his cheek screaming in protest, but he does not flinch. He can be immune to the pain if he forces himself to. He closes his eyes, imagines how Hannibal Lecter’s tall, lean body will seem to shrink into the baggy prison attire all of Frederick’s patients wear; how a translucent mask will steam up due to heated, angry breaths, hiding the cannibal’s thin lips from view; how Frederick himself will watch the prisoner mull about his cell, lacking all of his precious books and abhorrent meals, and feel an overwhelming, undeniable flood of pride and assertion.

On the outside he may appear broken, body decorated with two tale-telling scars, but Frederick knows that broken is the very opposite of what he is. He will die eventually, as all humans do, but he believes now that he is invincible. He will die with this wound painted upon his cheek, a memory of survival and triumph for all time.

 


End file.
